


Supper

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Migelo and Dalan late into the banquet.
Relationships: Migelo/Dalan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Supper

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XII or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For once, there’s no one outside—the underground streets are almost empty, and what’s there are only little pockets, people whispering and starting new rumours—Migelo can hear the thunderous cry of feet above, rushing towards the palace and back, both curious and frightened. Migelo’s too old for idle curiosity and can only hope all those he loves have reached the same conclusion. It’s a dangerous place to be at the moment, but then, all of Rabanastre has become something of a battle ground. 

No one’s there to hold the door for him, so he has to rustle his own way inside, arms full of baskets and wine—left over provisions from the ruined feast. Dalan won’t eat anywhere near so much, but he feeds as many other mouths as Migelo does. He’s waiting there, perched on an old crate at the back of the small space, like he almost always is—like Migelo knew he would be. His head lifts when he sees Migelo enter, his hand stilling atop his pet. He lowers the pipe at his lips while Migelo sets his loot atop the boxes in the corner. Neither offers any empty greeting, because they both come and go so often that everything’s been said. Migelo waits until he’s sorted it all out to pop the wine open and pour two generous glasses—better stuff than what he fed to the new consul. Dalan will appreciate it more. _Deserves_ it more.

Dalan reaches out to take the glass when it’s offered. The first sip is small, careful, and doesn’t stain a single hair on his silver beard. The hume tongue is so tiny, still a marvel to Migelo. He stands over Dalan and takes a slower gulp, drenching all his whiskers, and speaking first: “You should have come to the banquet; I would have extended an invitation.”

In truth, neither of them should have gone, but that thought leaves a bitter taste in Migelo’s mouth, and he clamps it down, because he knows what’s necessary. He does what he must. He also knows what’s _right_. With a thoughtful glint in his eye, Dalan plays along. “It was a good time then, eh? After all?”

Migelo swirls the burgundy drink around his cup, not all that unlike hume blood. He saw none of it spilled, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find the streets stained come morning. A part of him still wants to run topside and find all his other friends, those young enough to be so foolish, but he reminds himself that drawing attention to their hiding spots would do no one any good. He’s taught them well, at least. As best he can. 

He’s slow to answer, “Good enough for what it was.” Before the soldiers came, and anyone with any sense got out, but Dalan will already know of that. “There was fine chatter and dancing.”

Dalan chuckles, and the creature in his lap flicks its tail as though to join in. “If that is your invitation, I would still pass. I’m afraid my dancing days are over, my friend.”

“A pity. You were so good at it.” It’s not an empty complement—Migelo remembers well the days where Dalan moved with grace and culture, body swaying to any given beat, full of precise skill and a natural gift that Migelo’s bungling limps could only envy. He sighs into his glass, “I wish you would honour me with one more.”

Dalan’s grin is slick and telling. It seems to be full of a promise he can’t deliver on, not since a rogue Imperial threw out his hip. But he pats the creature’s pink back, and it leaps away to make room. Migelo knows the implication. 

He sets his half-empty glass among the uneaten food. Dalan places his on the cold stone floor, freeing up both hands. Migelo gradually kneels down on the worn-out rug, old joints cracking and groaning as he goes. He knows it will be worth it. 

He lays his head in Dalan’s lap and hums blissfully as Dalan pets his weary hide, always knowing just how to bring him peace.


End file.
